


Sleep

by sorta_sirius_black



Series: Random Drabbles [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Assisted Suicide, Cancer, Fluff and Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Literally just pain, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 12:52:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorta_sirius_black/pseuds/sorta_sirius_black
Summary: Painful Hannigram Drabble. Sorry.





	

The cancer came out of nowhere, as cancer tends to do. 

An ironic way to die. He had been so sure that the monster that he had fallen so desperately for would've been his demise, but alas, it had been his own body to betray him. Mutated cells forming the tumors that would eventually smother him, if something else didn't kill him first. 

It had been too late to do anything when they found out. Small cell lung cancer, stage four. Too fast acting and too aggressive to do anything about it. Just comfort, just making his last days as not-miserable as possible. And so far, despite Hannibal’s best efforts, that not-misery had been quite the failed experiment. 

He wasn't even sure what was worse. Dying, or knowing that he was dying. 

It had just started as a cough, a tickle, really. A cough one morning, then a couple in the afternoon. Then it turned into what they had assumed was just a nasty case of bronchitis. It had lasted a few weeks, but they hadn't worried about it. What was there to worry about? He'd dealt with bullets and knives. Hell, he'd been gutted like a goddamned fish. A cough was nothing. 

Then the blood came up, covering his hand after a coughing fit. 

Will had only seen Hannibal cry three times. The first time had been as Hannibal let Will fall to the floor in a bloody heap, a couple of tears that could’ve been mistaken for sweat dripping off his nose. The second time had been after the first time that they had made love, Hannibal collapsing in a heap over him, bawling and clutching to him for dear life. The third time had been after they had realized what was wrong, and what would inevitably happen to him. 

He had tried so hard to be strong for him, Will knew that. He had tried to be his rock. But the evening after they had found out, after crying, and coughing, and crying more, Will had finally found the strength to pull himself out of bed, shuffling down the hall to find Hannibal curled up on the couch, stroking one of their dogs absentmindedly as he sobbed into the pillow. 

Will Graham was 46 years old, and Will Graham was dying. 

It had taken years for them to get to a place where they could coexist and love without the power struggle and hatred. They had finally made peace and they had finally, finally, finally fallen in love. Had started to build a life together. Had even talked about adopting a child. And all of that had been cut short. Will was bitter to say the least.

He was confined to a bed these days. Couldn't even reach up and pump up the morphine anymore. His arms were too weak to move more than a couple of inches at a time. Too weak to stand, too weak to move, too weak, too weak, too fucking weak. 

Hannibal slipped in and sat down slowly next to the man that had once been so beautiful, so vibrant, so full of life. Now his body was pale, skin just barely clinging to bone, hair thin and nearly gone. It wasn't even from chemotherapy - they hadn't even bothered with it. It was from stress, and malnutrition. Hannibal had watched him sob and scream out to the universe, cursing the world and damning it to hell as he ripped his own hair from his scalp. He was so broken now. Broken and bitter and tired. 

His poor boy. His poor, sweet boy, wasting away before his eyes, and there was nothing that he could do about it. 

Hannibal had always considered himself a happy man, happy with his place in the world, chasing after the finer things in life. But now, his outlook had turned bleak. The world was taking the thing that meant most to him. The world hadn't let him touch for years, and as soon as he got his hands on him, the world was taking him back. 

"Will..." Hannibal whispered, fingers curling around Will's bony hand. 

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this happened. I'm sorry we can't have more time." Will croaked, barely able to speak. 

"I know, darling. I know." Hannibal let out in a shaky whimper, leaning over and pressing a small kiss against his forehead. 

Will gulped down and nodded hard. He was ready to go.

He didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't want to suffer. His chest rattled with each breath, his blood running cold. He didn't want to live like this. No one should have to live like this. Hannibal knew it, too. He couldn't make his lover suffer any longer. 

"Sleep, sweet boy." Hannibal murmured, reaching behind him and turning the morphine up, the trembling body beneath him slowly stilling. Will could feel the ragged sob pull from Hannibal’s chest, the fourth and last time he would ever witness Hannibal Lecter cry. "Sleep."


End file.
